


Red String of Fate

by Azar443



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 06:46:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12007275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar443/pseuds/Azar443
Summary: Chinese legends tell of the red string of fate, of an invisible, flimsy thread tying the ankles of those destined together. Of course, legends are merely that: legends.





	Red String of Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qBox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qBox/gifts).



Chinese legends tell of the red string of fate, of an invisible, flimsy thread tying the ankles of those destined together. Other stories tell of how soulmates have recurring dreams of past lives with their destined, others say the first words your destined will speak to you are inked on your body. Of course, legends are merely that: legends. More often than not, humans put little stock in mythical stories about magic and fate.

Credence Barebone, despite being an artist who revelled in dreaming and creating, will tell you, very adamantly indeed, that he doesn’t believe in the idea of soulmates, not one whit. An artist slowly gaining a reputation in the bustling city of New York, Credence is used to keeping to himself, save for a few trusted friends like the Goldstein sisters and their beaus, Newt Scamander and Jacob Kowalski, who by the way, owns  _the_  most decadent bakery in town. He paints when the urge strikes him, sleeps for several hours in between, is forced out for meals by the Goldsteins, and dreams for the rest of his time. He dreams of many things, of shapes that slither and twist and drip down like paint that has not dried, of the piercing voice of one Mary Lou Barebone who was so very fond of the whip and belt, and most recently, dreams of a man who looks different and yet the same each time he appears in Credence’s dreams.

The first time Credence remembers seeing him, the man appears as a knight. Silent, sturdy and clad in shining armour, the man in his dreams gazes straight at Credence, and for some reason, the little sideways grin the man shoots at him seems  _so_  familiar, that when he wakes up, there’s a gaping ache in his heart that leaves him gasping for breath, for the man who exists only in his dreams. This happens again every time Credence goes to sleep; in one dream, the man is a nobleman, dressed in the finest of garments with his dark hair long and silky and combed back, and Credence  _thinks_  he might have been dancing with the mysterious man. Not all the dreams are pleasant however, and some are filled with death and smoke where the man is  _burning_ , tied to a post and condemned for a witch. That dream in particular is vivid, so vivid that Credence feels the burning of smoke in his lungs, feels the heat of the flames licking at his skin, threatening to leave blisters and burns as he reaches out for the nameless man who screams out a name as he writhes in agony. Credence wakes up with the acrid taste of smoke still lingering in his mouth, and the memory of a man burning to  _nothing_. He spends the next hour retching in the bathroom, and his bones are cold from death and loss that should mean nothing to him, but does.

Credence tells Queenie Goldstein about the dreams over coffee the next day, and the blonde is sympathetic, and yet ecstatic at the same time because  _it means you’re going to find your soulmate, Credence_ , but he scoffs and takes a huge gulp of coffee instead. Not because he actually  _believes_  in soulmates now, but because he’s had this argument with Queenie over and over again and he’s not changed his mind still. Not even when the dreams haunt his every sleeping moment and he wakes up  _wanting_ but never knowing  _what_  or  _who_. It’s come to the point where he’s brushing his teeth in the morning and keeps expecting arms to encircle him from behind, and a raspy whisper telling him  _good_ _morning_ , or when he suddenly has the urge to eat food he’s always disliked, or when he’s walking down the streets and there’s a shadow of a man with dark hair and dark eyes and grace like a panther, but when he turns to look, there’s never anyone there. He’s being haunted by ghosts that don’t exist (or so he thinks) and he doesn’t like it. Despite being an artist who sees the world in colour and abstract and shapes and ideas that people can’t see, Credence is a logical person and soulmates  _don’t_ exist. They  _don’t_.

Everything goes tits up however, when Credence decides to take a walk in Central Park. Looking back on it, things like fucking soulmates popping up (and a previous stalker who insists he’s Jack fucking Sparrow) are why Credence never goes out. He likes stability, likes it when things go according to plan and there aren’t any unexpected surprises; all of which his studio, the Kowalski Bakery and his home can offer, hence why he rarely goes to places where there are far too many unknowns. But it’s not much to ask for, is it? To have a walk in peace without bumping into the man in his dreams, with his dark hair and eyes and that  _fucking_  trench coat that makes him look like he’s just stepped off a runway in Paris. He’s just minding his own business, watching where his feet are going so he doesn’t trip over any cracks, when a low voice stops him dead in his tracks, with an innocent “excuse me?” Credence swears under his breath and turns around, and is immediately met with the most handsome man he’s ever set his sight on.

There’s a brilliant grin on the man’s face when he takes in Credence’s visage, but there’s a soft shyness in his eyes, and Credence is captivated by the movement of his bushy brows as the man introduces himself as Percival Graves. There’s a pregnant pause when Percival’s hand is outstretched, but Credence finds himself reaching out to grasp his hand in a firm, but gentle handshake.

You know the clichéd stories about fireworks exploding and seeing the world in a sudden burst of colour? Credence used to hate those expressions, but  _fuck it_ they were accurate. As soon as Credence feels Percival’s warm skin on his, his breath catches and there’s an explosion of feelings and colour and warmth, and he stumbles backwards from the force of it all. Percival moves to stop him from falling, and their faces are so close together, Percival thinks he can see flecks of gold in the brown of Credence’s eyes, and his fingers ache to trace the sharp lines of his jaw. The younger man blinks and stills, when he feels warm lips on his jawline, close to his ear and all at once, the touch of Percival’s lips are gone, but  _oh_  he misses them already. Looking up, he sees a blush spread across Percival’s face, and notices the five o’ clock shadow the man sports, and he can’t help but run his fingers across the coarse stubble that frames a sharp jawline. There’s a tremble of muscle beneath his fingers, and Credence glances coquettishly at Percival, but the barking of a dog reminds them that they’re in Central Park, and there are people casting strange glances at them.

Percival is the first to recover, and with Credence’s hand in his, suggests that they perhaps find someplace else to talk. They end up at Kowalski’s Bakery, and Queenie watches with a heart brimming with glee as the two men speak. Credence learns his destined is very nearly the second most powerful person in the city, answering only to Seraphina Picquery, mayor of New York. Percival learns that Credence’s next gallery showing is this Sunday, and the artist tentatively extends an invitation to him, which is enthusiastically accepted. Credence learns that Percival likes Chinese food, which would explain why Credence had the sudden urge to indulge in Chinese take-out for several weeks now. Percival learns that Credence was abused as a child, and he promptly presses a kiss onto the younger man’s paint-stained knuckles, eliciting a surprised squeak from the artist. They both learn that they started having the dreams around the same time, about two months ago, and they spend hours discussing their past lives. Percival, with a sly smile and a twinkle in his eyes, tells Credence that he looks much nicer with his current haircut than the bowl haircut he sported in one of their past lives, to which Credence retorts that Percival could do without the poufy sleeves he sported as a nobleman.

It’s past closing time when Percival and Credence finally decide to part ways, but not without agreeing to meet again the next day. Percival promises to take Credence to the opera, to which he has reserved box seats all year round, and Credence promises to give Percival a proper tour of the Metropolitan Museum of Art with detailed explanations. Their hands linger a touch longer as they hug goodbye, and there’s a dopey grin on Credence’s face as he drifts home in a haze of happiness. That night, the dreams of lives long past stop, and instead, they both dream of the future and of laughter and hope. What they don’t notice however, is the glint of a translucent red string tied around their ankle, and if you listen very carefully, you just might hear the faint sound of an old man laughing in the distance as he continues his work in the night, tying silken red threads around the ankles of predestined couples.


End file.
